The Story of Us

by Lana Kortchik

  When the crying subsided, Stanislav looked around the kitchen and spotted Costa and Larisa. ‘And who are these little people?’

  As Mother clung to Stanislav, not letting go for a second, as if afraid he’d disappear the minute she stopped touching him, Natasha introduced the twins. There was delight on Stanislav’s face at suddenly finding himself an uncle to not just one but two adorable children. Stanislav picked up the twins, who squealed in delight at having another grown-up to croon over them and spoil them.

  When Mark walked in, more introductions followed. Not straying far from Stanislav’s side, Mother laid the table, inviting everyone for lunch.

  ‘How I missed your stew, Mama,’ said Stanislav. He couldn’t stop looking at each of them in turn.

  Natasha put her arm around her brother. She couldn’t believe she was seeing him alive. ‘Tell us everything. Where have you been?’

  ‘On the outskirts of Kiev. It felt like it went on forever,’ said Stanislav. ‘We haven’t been able to enter the city. Until now.’

  ‘My son is a hero. Wait till I tell everyone.’ Mother dabbed her eyes with her kerchief. ‘All this time you were so close and we didn’t even know.’

  ‘Yes, all this time I was just across the Dnieper, coming to liberate you. General Vatutin planned to free Kiev on the 7th of November, the anniversary of the October Revolution. And we did it, a day early.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ cried Mother. ‘I just can’t believe you’re back home safely.’

  ‘Not for long, Mama. The war is far from over. My job is not done until Hitler is out of the Soviet Union for good.’ He swallowed a spoonful of stew and asked, ‘Where is everyone else?’

  There was a moment of silence and then Mother said, tears streaming down her face, ‘Nikolai and Babushka didn’t make it. They are gone. And we don’t know what happened to Lisa and Papa.’

  Stanislav’s face crumbled. In his eyes Natasha could see his heartbreak. He hugged Mother, and together they cried.

  An hour later, Natasha found her mother in the doorway of Stanislav’s bedroom. Tears were running down her face. She watched her sleeping son with such tenderness, such love, such anxiety, Natasha felt close to tears herself. ‘Mama, are you okay?’ she whispered.

  Mother sighed. ‘He’s still here. And I thought it was a dream.’

  *

  The rain had stopped and the timid autumn sun peeked through the cloud. Mark and Natasha strolled through the streets, smiling at passers-by, who smiled happily back. Finally, for the first time in over two years, their city belonged to them once more. As she made her way through Kiev, holding Mark’s hand and every now and then pausing to look into his face, Natasha couldn’t believe that their victory was real.

  Kreshchatyk, the most famous cobbled street in all of Ukraine, was unrecognisable: it was in ruins and most of it had been destroyed during the occupation. But Kiev was free again. Free to live, to breathe, to rebuild, until it was more beautiful than ever. Everywhere Natasha looked, the streets were awash with red flags. Kievans made flags from every type of material at their disposal. Some of them were just red towels or red bed sheets or even an occasional red shirt hastily draped over someone’s balcony, while others were real Soviet flags, with the hammer and sickle and a golden star. Natasha’s heart beat faster, lighter at the sight of the Soviet triumph on the streets of her city. She vowed to make a flag of her own as soon as they returned.

  They turned onto Institutskaya Street. Although there were fewer people there, the crowds were no less ecstatic. Russian songs were heard and Russian shouts. They paused outside a building that was completely demolished by fire. Her eyes twinkling, Natasha turned to Mark. ‘Remember this place?’

  ‘Our first barracks. How could I forget?’

  ‘No, silly.’ She shook her head and laughed, shoving him. ‘This is where you kissed me for the first time.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ Grinning, Mark kissed her deeply until her knees felt weak. If it wasn’t for his arms holding her, she would have lost her balance and fallen. The emotion, the joy, the relief, it was all too much.

  When he let go of her, she said wistfully, ‘I wish they were all here to see this day.’

  His arms tightened around her. ‘The Soviets are liberating prison camps as we speak. Your Papa could return any moment.’

  Natasha hoped Mark was right. With all her heart she hoped that her father would be able to see his city liberated from the Nazis.

  Holding her hand firmly, Mark asked. ‘Remember our last night together in the cafeteria?’ His eyes grew serious.

  She blinked. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You made me a promise that night.’

  Shyly she looked up at him. ‘What promise was that?’

  His eyes sparkled. ‘You promised to marry me.’ He pulled her close. ‘So what do you say? Will you marry me?’

  She nodded mutely. She wanted to say yes, wanted to shout yes from the top of the tallest building in Kiev but couldn’t find the strength for even the tiniest of whispers. As they held each other in the midst of happiness and celebrations and laughter, surrounded by red Soviet flags, with not a swastika in sight, not a single German plane and not a Nazi officer, Natasha cried tears of sorrow and tears of happiness – for everyone she had lost and everything she had been given.

  Epilogue

  December 1945

  It was New Year’s Eve, and Kiev looked like a fairy-tale kingdom hidden away by snow, with festive lights on every street corner and a giant tree on Mikhailovskaya Square, its snow-capped branches reaching for the sky. Instead of Christmas carols in German, the loudspeakers played Soviet war songs, even though there would be no place for war in the New Year, no place for fear, loss or heartbreak, because 1946 was going to be the year of peace.

  The Smirnovs had a beautiful tree of their own at home. It stood tall and proud, almost touching the ceiling, filling the house with the smell of fresh pine, of childhood and laughter, of dreams and happiness. The twins wanted to decorate it all by themselves, and so the bottom of the tree was heavy with baubles and tinsel, while the rest of it remained bare but for the red star that Mark had placed at the top. Mother had told Costa and Larisa there would be many presents waiting for them under the tree on 1st January, delivered by Grandpa Frost, a magical character who lived in the Arctic and travelled through chimneys. The twins took turns hiding under the green canopy, determined to catch the mysterious Grandpa Frost as he brought their presents.

  Natasha was cleaning frantically, mopping the floor, dusting the table, arranging flowers in vases, the usual last-minute preparations that preceded a celebration. And it was going to be a true celebration this year. Zina and Timofei were coming with their cousin. Mikhail was already there, discussing Napoleon’s Peninsular campaign with Grandfather, who opened his best wine for the occasion. Stanislav was bringing a girl he’d met at the factory where he was working after the war. And Lisa was bringing her new husband.

  Outside, Mark was teaching the twins how to make a snowman, and their excited voices reached Natasha from the park. Earlier they had snuck into the kitchen and, when her back was turned, taken a carrot that was meant for the salad. If she looked out the window, she could see the carrot adorning the snowman’s face.

  The twins bounced through the door, followed by Mark. ‘Mama, Mama, we did it all by ourselves. Papa didn’t help us.’

  ‘You did what, little ones?’ Natasha kneeled and opened her arms. When they ran to her, she showered them with kisses.

  ‘We built a snowman. His name is Frost. Larisa named him. Do you think Grandpa Frost will like that and bring us more presents?’ Costa extricated himself from his mother’s embrace and danced on the spot excitedly. Her son and daughter were bundled up nice and warm, so cute in their winter coats, with only their eyes and noses visible from under the scarf. They looked like little snowmen themselves.

  ‘Of course he will. And why didn’t Papa help you?’ She smiled at Mark, and he
smiled back.

  ‘We didn’t want him to.’ The children spotted Mother in the corridor and ran to her, shouting, ‘Babushka, we did it! We built snowman.’

  Natasha turned to Mark. ‘Don’t you know how to make a snowman?’ she teased.

  ‘Of course not. It’s not like we have snow in Hungary.’

  ‘Stop teasing me. I can never tell if you are joking or if you are serious.’

  Mark crossed the room and took her in his arms. He walked with a slight limp – a reminder of his time at Stalingrad. There was a large scar on his right hand – a souvenir from his days in the Red Army. ‘Do you need any help? I can mop the floor.’

  ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘That I know.’ His eyes twinkled at the memory of a different time, a different life. ‘Let me finish here. Your sister came in with us. She brought meat for the pelmeni. She might need your help in the kitchen.’

  ‘Might?’ Natasha laughed, kissing him. Lisa in the kitchen was akin to a natural disaster.

  Long gone were the days when all they had for dinner was potato peel. Although still not readily available, with patience most food could be found in stores or at the market. For the last two days, Mother had been busy making Napoleon cake. It was their pre-war tradition to have the cake for New Year’s. It had been so long, Natasha had almost forgotten what it tasted like. And now the cake sat proudly on the living-room table, waiting for midnight, while the family eyed it with longing.

  It had always been Nikolai’s favourite cake. Her little brother would get up at dawn with Mother, pretending he wanted to help, just so he could lick the bowl and eat the trimmings. Natasha couldn’t look at the cake without thinking of Nikolai, without seeing his mischievous smile as he woke her far too early, a bowl of cream in his hands. Would she ever be free of the shadows? Underneath the happiness, there was a darkness that never let her go. Every smile was touched with sadness, every embrace with a loved one brought tears. The war might be over but inside her it still raged. It had seeped into her soul and become a part of her, and Natasha knew that for as long as she lived, she wouldn’t be free from it. None of them would.

  In the kitchen, Lisa was rolling out the dough for pelmeni. Natasha hugged her sister hello, washed her hands and put her apron on.

  ‘Wait till you hear the secret I have for you this year,’ said Lisa, a satisfied grin on her face, like a cat on a sunny deck.

  The war had turned Lisa’s beautiful red hair grey. At twenty-two, Lisa dyed her hair religiously. It was her little secret that she was determined to keep from everyone. But just like Natasha, Lisa had her own shadows, and they were harder to hide than the grey streaks in her hair. The shadows were apparent in her face when she talked, in her eyes when she tried to smile, even in the way she moved, no longer with the self-confident stride of someone who wanted the whole world to watch her.

  ‘Another one of your made-up secrets?’ asked Natasha, salting the mince and inhaling the oniony smell.

  ‘Laugh all you want but it’s the best secret yet.’

  ‘Better than Zina kissing a stranger on the stairs?’

  ‘Oh, much better.’

  ‘I have a secret for you too.’

  ‘I bet it’s not as good as mine. How about the loser has to cook for the winner for a week?’

  ‘But you can’t cook.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m not going to lose,’ said Lisa, winking.

  ‘You go first,’ said Natasha. Lisa seemed to hesitate. Suddenly she looked nervous. Natasha said, ‘Let me guess. You found a job?’

  ‘No, silly. I don’t need to work, I’m married now.’

  ‘Of course you are. What was I thinking?’

  ‘Keep guessing.’

  ‘You are taking a cooking class.’ Natasha winked at her sister and pointed at the pelmeni Lisa was carelessly pasting together. Different shapes and sizes, they looked like they had been made by a child.

  ‘I know how to cook better than some.’ Lisa glared at her sister, whose pelmeni were perfect like soldiers on parade.

  ‘I don’t know then, Lisa. What is it?’

  ‘Do you give up?’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  Lisa dusted the flour off her hands and smoothed the apron she was wearing over her best dress. ‘Do I look any different to you?’

  ‘You are as beautiful as ever.’

  ‘Do I look heavier? More filled out?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Natasha appraised her sister. Her stomach was flat, her hips narrow. Why would Lisa, who had always been obsessed with her weight, ask Natasha if she looked heavier and seem so excited about it? It didn’t make sense unless… ‘Oh my God, Lisa! Are you—’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ Natasha jumped up and down on the spot, finally pulling Lisa to her and kissing her on the cheek. ‘How far along?’

  ‘Not far. I just found out.’

  ‘Have you told Dmitry?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.’

  ‘Your sister before your husband?’

  ‘My sister before anyone.’ Lisa’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes twinkled. ‘I’m so excited, Natasha! After everything we’ve been through, it’s a new beginning for our family.’

  ‘I’m going to be an auntie. It’s the best secret ever! I can’t believe I’m saying this but you win.’

  ‘Wait, you haven’t told me yours yet.’

  Natasha reached into her pocket. ‘We received this in the morning.’

  Lisa opened the letter with a frown, as if expecting bad news. But as she read, her eyes grew wide. ‘Papa is coming home?’ she whispered.

  ‘He is,’ Natasha said. ‘He’s coming home.’ Natasha held Lisa in her arms as they cried – happy tears, tears of hope and relief. She knew that her sister was right. It was a new beginning for their family. A beginning to the rest of their lives that would forever be touched by war, but not broken. Never broken.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my family for always being there for me. Thank you to my mum for her wisdom and kindness, to my husband for his love and support, and to my beautiful little boy for filling every day with joy, laughter and cuddles.

  Thank you to my talented friend and writing buddy Mark Farley for being the first person to read this book and for holding my hand every step of the way, encouraging, helping and advising.

  Thank you to my amazing editor Cara Chimirri, whose vision and ideas have made this story the best it could possibly be. Thank you to Hannah Smith for noticing my manuscript and getting me on board, and to the HarperCollins design team for my beautiful cover. And thank you to everyone at HQ Digital for making my dream come true.

  I am especially grateful to my favourite history teacher at the University of Southern Queensland, Catherine Dewhirst, who told me many years ago that I should be a writer. I wrote my first short story the next day and have never looked back.

  And finally, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed the previous edition of this book, especially Tina Gohar for her wonderful feedback that inspired me to write more.

  Dear Readers,

  Thank you for choosing this book. I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

  The story of Natasha and her family is very close to my heart. Like most Russians, I grew up hearing about the war from my grandparents. These stories are in our blood, like our love for Pushkin and our penchant for drinking tea with every meal. My grandparents were too young to fight in the war but old enough to remember the hunger and the fear for everyone they loved, especially their fathers, far away at the Eastern front and inching their way towards Berlin.

  Despite the order to hold Kiev (or Kyiv, as it’s known in post-Soviet era) at all costs, on 19th September 1941, three months after Hitler had attacked the Soviet Union, the Nazis entered the city. Although many people had evacuated or joined the army, 400,000 still li
ved in Kiev when Hitler’s Army Group Centre marched through the streets. The occupation would last 778 days. It was a time of terror, hunger and persecution for the local population. Historians estimate that between 100,000 and 150,000 people perished in the tragedy of Babi Yar. Another 100,000 were forced to Germany for work. Most of them never came home. When the Soviet Army finally liberated Kiev in November 1943, only 180,000 people remained in the city.

  Having lived in Kiev for three years as a child and fallen in love with its cobbled streets and golden domes, I knew that was where I wanted to base my story. One of the first short stories I ever wrote was about a couple in love, trapped on opposite sides of the most brutal conflict the world had ever known. It was inspired by an article I came across many years ago, about a famous Soviet actress who had survived the war thanks to the kindness of a German soldier, who twice a day for the duration of the occupation fed the local children. When the short story was published in a magazine, people reached out to me, asking questions. They wanted to know how long the occupation of Ukraine had lasted and what life had been like for the ordinary Soviets. I realised there was more to the story than I first thought, and two years later it became a novel.

  While researching the period of occupation, I have read dozens of memoirs and diaries of the survivors. Two of them have made a great impression on me. One was the hauntingly beautiful and disturbing diary of Irina Horoshunova, whose family had been shot by the Nazis for their connection to the partisans. Irina worked as a librarian and wrote her diary throughout the occupation, describing her daily life, hopes and fears. Another diary was that of Alexandra Sharandachenko, who worked as a schoolteacher and, later, a registrar in Kiev. These women were incredibly brave to detail the horrors of the occupation under the Nazis’ noses. Had their diaries been discovered, they would have been arrested and most likely shot.